Page 6 of Capturing Love

He cleared his throat and focused on the pavement as he walked. “Two weeks,” he replied, deadpan.

“You sound…excited.” I crinkled my nose. “What is it? An arranged marriage?”

He lifted his brow and laughed. “No, not intentionally. We’ve known each other since we were kids. Our families are close, so we’re a good fit.”

“A good fit? Sounds romantic.”

“We’ve been together for eleven years. We’re past that stage.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be married for fifty years before you say that shit? You should be head over heels in love right now. That’s how I want to feel before I ever get married.”

He shot me a sideways glance. “You’re a romantic?”

I shrugged. “Perhaps not in the obvious way.”

We silently made our way back to the fountain, where we first unofficially met.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love her. I do,” Grayson continued as he leant his back against the guardrail.

I paused in front of him, remembering a job I did a few months ago. “Wait a sec.” I grabbed my camera and brought it up to my eye, watching him through the lens.

He shifted uncomfortably. “What are you doing?”

“Tell me about your fiancé.”

“What, why?” he asked, scrunching up his nose.

I smiled at him as I focused in on his eyes. “Just tell me what you love about her.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “Well, she’s sweet and attractive.” Snap.

“Go on.”

He sighed and looked away. Snap. “We’ve had similar upbringings, so she understands me, and my parents adore her, which makes my life a hell of a lot easier.” Snap.

I studied the photos on my camera and moved my finger over the delete button, hesitant to show him what was lacking while he described his soon-to-be wife.

“What is it?” he asked, stepping forward.

I lifted my gaze. “A few months ago, I interviewed this guy about his wife. They’d been together since they were teenagers and I took photos of him while he answered that same question.”

I flicked through the old images and held my camera out to show him.

Grayson cautiously took it, shooting me a peculiar look. Sliding his glasses back on, he peered down at my photograph. “It’s a beautiful picture, but I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Check out his eyes…they lit up when he talked about her.” I took my camera out of his hands and pressed a few buttons before passing it back. “This is you.”

He blinked a few times, and went quiet, falling back onto the guardrail. “Are you always this good at reading people?”

I offered him a sad smile. “Through a lens, maybe.”

He handed back the camera and turned, focusing his attention on the fountain as it started to dance.

“So, what is it? The eleven-year itch?” I asked hesitantly, hoping I hadn’t offended him.

He snorted. “I’ve been feeling the itch for a while now,” he said, loosening his collar.

My mouth dropped, but I scooped it back up. “Does your fiancé feel the same?”